


A Candle Song

by opalmatrix



Category: Once and Future King Series - T. H. White
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - 1960s, Folk Music, Future Fic, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 21:25:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15894429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalmatrix/pseuds/opalmatrix
Summary: A day in the life of Art Pendrake, former folk music sensation.





	A Candle Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gwenfrankenstien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenfrankenstien/gifts).



> The recipient wanted T.H. White's _Once and Future King_ , and I got bunnied by not one but two of the suggested AUs. So I did both of them. Very effective beta by **[Isis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis)**.

The dining room was not yet crowded. Many of the residents took retirement seriously and did not want to drag themselves from their rooms so early. Some were still in bed, some were having early coffee on their own, perhaps reading the morning paper or watching the morning news.

Art preferred to have others around him, so he always got up early, dressed, and went down to breakfast. He always chose any empty table: he hated to presume. If someone sought him out, that was different.

The Puerto Rican waitress took his order: an orange, porridge, a six-minute egg, toast, coffee. "Of course, Mr. Pendrake," she said.

He could have just said "the usual, Mia." Like so many of the residents, he was set in his ways. Set in his speech, too: his accent still English, his word choices decades old. _Latina_ , he thought. Mia was Latina, not Puerto Rican. She might in fact be from any of the nations to the south. _Anywhere with a war,_ he thought. Wars made good songs, a shining counterpoint to the death and blood.

The cruel war is raging  
Johnny has to fight…

He heard the old lyrics in Jenny's voice, a light but true soprano, and the guitar accompaniment was Lance's, intricate and on the mark.

And where was he? Supporting them, always: rhythm guitar, harmony vocals. But it was Art's compositions that Lance played, and Art had brought them together and arranged the tours. 

The breakfast came, proper hot porridge ("oatmeal," said the menu) with heated milk and brown sugar, the orange freshly peeled and fanned out on its own plate, the egg in an eggcup, toast lightly browned with a dish of butter curls alongside, coffee fragrant and scalding. He topped his egg, buttered the toast, poured a cup of coffee, and then dressed his oatmeal. The first mouthful was pure comfort: melting sugar, bland-sweet milk, gentle grain taste of the porridge itself…  
 

It was the first of the holidays, Art and Colin home from school, Mother presiding over the breakfast table, Father behind the paper. As the meal came to an end and Art and Colin grew restless to go out and about, Mother spoke: "Hector, dear."

Hector peered out from behind the finance section. "What is it, Julia?"

She raised her eyebrows in a very meaning way and nodded toward the boys. Art and Colin exchanged glances. They weren't always friendly with each other: Colin big and rough and inclined to bully, Art lightly built for his height and tender-hearted with it. Still, they were loyal to each other.

"Oh, all right," said Hector, putting his paper down. He cleared his throat and shifted in his chair, uneasy, his ruddy face serious. "Arthur, you were fourteen last week. There's something you ought to know."

Hector gave every sign of reluctance to continue. Art did his best to help. "What is it, Father?"

"I think you have become aware of the fact that you were not born to us, son," he said at last.

Colin flushed. He'd blurted this tidbit out two years ago, jealous of Art's good marks his first term at pre-prep and how pleased Julia had been. "You're not even her proper son, stupid Wart," he'd taunted. But Art was over that.

Mostly.

"You're old enough to know more," Hector said. "Your father was the renowned jazz musician Hugh Pendrake. When you come of age, you may, if you wish, change your name to Arthur Pendrake."

"Well," said Colin, while Art sat with his mouth hanging open. "That explains why you're such a songbird and so good at piano. Your father was a bloody genius, Wart."

"Language, dear," said Julia. "Yes, Art has clearly inherited some of his father's talent."

Art licked his dry lips. "And m-my mother?"

Hector tweaked the edge of the newspaper, fidgeting like a child. "She was a socialite who loved jazz, a lady named Irene Moore. She was just twenty and newly wed to Lord Geoffrey Gordon. He was away on a hunting trip on the Continent, and she went down to London without his knowledge to hear the Pendrake Five play. Lady Gordon and Pendrake had a whirlwind affair over the weekend, and her husband died in a road accident in the Alps and never came home. Everyone assumed the child was his, but Lady Gordon knew better."

"Why—why am I with you and M-mother?"

Hector sighed. "She was overcome with remorse. She couldn't trust herself to raise her son. My sister—your Aunt Margaret—was a friend of hers. Julia and I were just facing the news that we would be unable to have any children after you, Colin. It seemed to make sense that we would take you in as our own."

"And you _are_ our very own, Arthur," said Julia. "There's no need to think too hard about this for now. Enjoy your holiday, and you'll be joining Colin at Abbott House in the autumn, as we've planned all along. Now, what would you like for your birthday?"

The change in subject caught Art flat-footed. He'd been thinking of all sorts of things during the past few weeks; Hector and Julia were generous parents. But the news caused one thing in particular to shimmer and gleam in his mind's eye. "Mother, might I have a guitar?"  
 

After breakfast, Art was at loose ends. He called for a paper, which Mia brought on a tray, and pored over the arts section with a second cup of coffee. The music news was always of interest: he'd done his best to keep up with the scene, even if some of it made little sense to him. Still, memories of what he'd read about Hugh Pendrake and how jazz had been regarded back in the day made him patient with the excesses of modern rock musicians and rappers. And there had been another folk revival of sorts recently, though in truth it was mostly folk rock. These chaps played their own works, just as Art had done, although there was no tut-tutting these days about abandoning the good old songs of the past. 

He read a review of a new album and decided to take a shot at downloading it himself. Lance was expected for lunch. so if Art managed on his own, he'd be able to crow about it, and if not, then Lance could help him. He got stiffly to his feet and grabbed his Zimmer frame. _No, it's a walker. Americans call it a walker._

"Going, Mr. Pendrake?" chirped the social director, who'd been hovering about directing her seniors to the activities she thought suitable. _Insufferable busybody,_ thought Art.

"Yes, Bev," he answered; no need to hurt her feelings, after all.

"We'd be glad to have you in the Music Room, you know. The piano's just been tuned! You could play things people could sing."

"No, Bev. Going to download a new album and listen to it."

She made a sad little face. "Well, if you have trouble with it, I'm sure Steve will be able to help."

Steve was the Technical Assistant, a spotty youth who was only working at Avalon Residences until something "real" turned up. He and Art cordially disliked each other. "Don't need Steve. Got Lance coming today."

"Who…oh, Brother Luke!"

"Lance," said Art, firmly, and shuffled past her, thumping the walker down ahead of him. Lance could call himself what he liked: Art knew that that same heart still beat beneath the monk's habit.

He passed the Music Room on his way up to his own apartment. Some arhythmic tinkly tune was playing, and a woman in a purple leotard and snug black stretch trousers was leading a group of residents in chair yoga. The piano sat idle, gleaming in the October sunshine that poured through the clean windows and the room's pure air. Nothing could be farther from the dark, smoky coffee houses of his heyday.

_Play things people could sing._ Right.  
 

The Tin Lantern Cafe on Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village was dim and smoke-filled even at eleven in the morning. The piano had a battered case, but the owner kept it in tune. Art ran an effortless series of arpeggios from top to bottom. "Oy! Laddie!" called the floor manager, Lionel Givens, in an atrocious imitation of a Yorkshire burr. "Play summat the folk can sing!"

"Bugger you," said Art jovially. He swiveled around on the piano stool and pulled his guitar from its case: the same Martin guitar Mum had bought him fifteen years ago, as beautiful now as it had been then, and the tone as sweet as ever. He touched up the tuning and launched into "The Trooper and the Maid." 

Lionel and a couple of waitresses clapped along. The naughty, capering tune was winding to its end as the street door opened and two men came in, the younger one carrying a guitar case. Art directed the last chorus to them:

"Bonnie lassie, will you gang with me  
Bonnie lass, will ye lie near me  
I'll get all your ribbons reel  
In the morning ere I leave ye!"

"Right on!" said the fellow who wasn't carrying an instrument, and Art recognized his new American manager, Rob Stein. "It's always great to hear you doing justice to the old tunes, man."

"I'm at least two whiskies short of doing that one justice," said Art. "Who's the kid with the harp?"

"Oh, hey, Rob, you found him!" said Lionel. "Art, that's my cousin Lance Dufort, from Montreal. It's his first time in New York."

Art did a double take. Lionel had rich brown skin and an Afro, but Dufort was a typical French Canadian, ruddy skin and lank black hair. _Snap out of it, you stupid Brit. This is part of what civil rights is all about, isn't it? That people of different races can fall in love?_

"Hello, Lance!" Art stood and held out his hand. "I'm Art Pendrake. Are you going to play for us?"

Lance took Art's hand reverently, his dark eyes burning like a religious fanatic's. "Mr. Pendrake, it would be my honor."

"Here now," said Art, amused. "We're both of us musicians, from what Lionel tells me. Please call me Art. Have a seat."

The boy opened his guitar case and took out a very prosaic Yamaha. Art waited until he was seated and then gave him an E. Lance tuned up proficiently. He was a remarkably ugly young man, with a prominent jaw and a single heavy eyebrow. 

"What are you going to play for us?" asked Art.

"This is a Quebcois tune, 'La Nuit De Noce,'" said Lance. "I recorded it last summer."

He opened with a very accomplished bit of finger-picking. Art raised his eyebrows, impressed, and began to tap his toe. Lance swung into the first verse, his voice a pleasant baritone:

"Le plus beau jour que j'ai eu dans ma vie  
C'était bien celui quand j'ai épousé ma mie…"

A strong, steady voice, thought Art, and my word, he can certainly play that cheap biscuit crate of his. Lance's skill elevated the Yamaha's ordinary tone and suggested the fiddle that no doubt usually accompanied the traditional reel tune.

"Rejoue moé un tire lire lire  
Rejoue moé un tourelou reloure   
Rejoue moé un tour!" 

There was a moment's silence when Lance finished, then they all applauded. "That was brilliant!" said Art. "Say, do you know my 'Demon Lover'? You take lead guitar and do the vocal harmony."

Lance, flushed, nodded. Art settled himself on the corner of a table and started to pluck out the intro. Lance joined in, embroidering the repeat effortlessly, and then Art hit the first verse:

"Where have you been my long lost love   
This seven long years and more …" 

Lance came in at the third line, a soft drone underneath Art's soulful tenor, and then opened up more fully on the chorus. Art's pulse quickened: the lad was magic. They gazed into each other's eyes like lovers and spun the eerie ballad into a dark golden filigree, dropping the volume to a creepy whisper for the last repeat:

"I'll show you where the white lilies grow  
On the banks of Italy   
I'll show you where the white fishes swim  
At the bottom of the sea—" 

The lad wrapped it up with a macabre little dance of strings and let his head droop as the reverberations faded. The listeners broke into cheers and exclamations.

"Lance, you've got to play with us! Can you be here tonight? In fact, can you stay the afternoon and rehearse?" said Art.

Lance raised his face, which gleamed with sweat. "Yeah, tonight I can. But monsieur—I mean, Art, tonight only. Tomorrow I must go back to university. I have promised my father that I will get the degree and then decide on whether I will become a musician. He understand, truly he does, but he wants that I have something on which to fall back."

Art sighed. "How old are you, Lance?"

"I am nineteen."

_A kid. Damn._ "Well, a promise is a promise. I understand. We'll have one magical night." _Blast. I sound like a fellow planning a one-night stand with a girl._

"Thank you! Thank you, Art!"

"Lance, will you promise me something?"

"Anything."

_Ouch. He would promise literally anything at this moment, too. No wonder they say power corrupts._ "If you still want to go for music after you graduate, will you give me a call, and let me have first crack at you?"

Those dark and burning eyes fixed on his. "But of course," said Lance.  
 

He didn't manage the download. It was probably just the password again. Lance had brought him a beautiful little lockbox, like a miniature oaken treasure chest, but even after opening it up and consulting the notebook therein, Art couldn't make the download work. Ah well.

Bev had set up a custom music program for him: she really was good-hearted, even though she was a busybody. He put that on instead and leaned back in his recliner chair. He was just dozing off when there was a knock on the apartment door. "Who?" he called.

"It's me, Art," said a familiar voice, mellow and golden.

"Lance! Come in, lad." Art hoisted himself out of the chair without using the electric motor: he knew the day would come when he had to use it, but it wasn't today. He'd just got himself standing and was reaching for the Zimmer when Lance came in, as straight as ever though he was nearing seventy.

"Ah, Art, don't bother," said Lance and wrapped him in a bear hug. Art's cheek was pressed into the coarse black fabric of his monk's habit, which smelled comfortable and familiar, and then Lance released him. "Sit, sit. We've some time before lunch, haven't we?"

"We do," said Art, dropping back into the chair. Lance's accent no longer instantly pegged him as Qubecois, but it was still there, and sexy as hell. He could admit that to himself now. There'd been times, drunk and cozy together in some hotel room, when Art had been tempted. And nowadays, no one seemed to care. Bisexuality was a thing, especially among artists.

Great. Yet another regret.

"What's this stuff you're listening to?" asked Lance, throwing himself on the little settee, his dark eyes warm and kind, without the heat of his youth. He was wearing leather sandals with black socks, and his robe rose up to give Art a glimpse of a still-sturdy leg, well-furred with salt-and-pepper hairs to match Lance's badger-striped head.

"I think they're called Mumford and Sons," he said.

"Pleasant but not interesting," said Lance. "You could teach them a thing or two."

"Not my business any longer," said Art gruffly. If he started leading a public life once again, it would all come out: Lance and Jenny, Muriel and Maurice. 

"Seems a waste. I'm the monk, not you."

"And that seems a waste to me!" snapped Art. "You…oh, forget about it."

"I didn't come here to fight," said Lance, his voice gentle. "How's Jenny?"

That's why Lance's being a monk was a waste, of course. Art pushed on past it. "You'll see yourself if you stay late enough. She's in town for a conference up at the university, and her last thing is over at four."

"Ah." Lance's silence spoke loudly. "There's the gong for lunch," he said. "Shall I turn off the player for you?"

"No need. I've mastered this little gadget." Art turned off the music with the tiny remote and hoisted himself to his feet again. Together, they went down to the dining room. The residents looked up as they entered, and there was a little flurry of whispers: "Lance Dufort…Lance Dufort."  
 

Jenny and Art had finished the first half of their set, ably backed by Art's four Ogilvie nephews on percussion, string bass, vocals, and electric guitar. Art knew that the electric instrumentation and drums would create controversy: in fact, he was counting on it. The Newport Folk Festival audience was mostly clapping and cheering, although he'd heard some boos. He kissed Jenny and stepped up to the big standing mic. "Now I'd like to introduce to you the newest member of the Pendrake Band, our star from the north, from Canada: Lance Dufort!"

Some of them had heard of him, but most had not. They whispered the name back and forth: "Lance Dufort…Dufort…Dufort." He came out on stage, bulkier and a bit taller than the lad with the burning eyes of two years back. His guitar was new, a well-made Gibson that gleamed against his black shirt and dark jeans, He nodded to the Ogilvie brothers and counted softly: "One, two, three, four, a one—

The song was Art's new version of "Sweet William's Ghost," a Child ballad, dark and spooky. Lance's pyrotechnics on the big acoustic guitar were spectacular, with the Ogilvies providing a solid foundation. The intro stopped abruptly, and Jenny came in with a haunting wail. Art joined her, and the spell was truly woven. When the eerie tale wound to its close, there was a moment's silence, and then the applause crashed over them like hurricane-driven surf.

Lance's dark and burning eyes met Jenny's limpid grey gaze, and locked there.  
 

Back up in Art's room, Lance was noodling away on Art's guitar, playing accompaniment to bits of songs that Art was trying to write. Art's voice was not what it was, but he could still carry a tune. The new album was safely downloaded and ready to go. A soft rap sounded at the door, and one of the waitresses—Sandra?—came in with a tray full of tea: a large steaming pot, a plate of scones, and three cups.

"Three, Sandra?" asked Art.

"One for me," said Jenny's clear voice from the hall.

Lance was on his feet instantly, opening the door as Sandra set up the tea on the little round dining table. Jenny came in, ashy hair severely cropped and now colored closer to mouse than blond, her grey suit equally severe. "I've brought up your post," she said, offering Art a little sheaf of magazines and catalogs. "Oh, hello, Lance!"

"Jenny," he said warmly. He helped Art to a seat at the table and then held out a chair for Jenny. She thanked him prettily, her voice that of the tender young woman who had charmed the public by wedding folk star Arthur Pendrake so many years ago. Sandra went out, leaving the three of them alone.

Art glanced up from the mail as Lance sank down into his chair. His eyes were locked with Jenny's.

Art dropped his own gaze to his mail once more. _Rolling Stone_ , _National Geographic_ , a guitar catalog, a music publisher's booklet. "That suit doesn't, Jenny," he said to the glossy pages.

"What?" she said. Then: "Oh, doesn't 'suit' me. Clever. Yes, I know it doesn't. I'm not at the symposium to be decorative. I need to look magisterial and impressive, so that people will donate lots of money for women's health in developing nations, and send their best doctors, and so on."

"Very impressive," said Lance. 

"You're not exactly an impartial observer," said Jenny, with a hint of a smile. She poured out the tea, passed the cups, and served the scones, the perfect hostess.

"What sort are they?" asked Lance, looking at the scones with suspicion.

"Pumpkin, I think," said Art. "Seasonal."

"Americans will put pumpkin into anything," noted Jenny.

Lance broke off a corner of his and tasted it. "Not bad."

For a few moments, they sipped and chewed in silence. Jenny ate only half of her scone. Then Lance rose to his feet. "I need to get back for evensong, and it's a bit of a drive," he said. "Good to see you again, Jenny."

Art could feel the tension between them as solidly as he could feel the chair beneath him. _Give her a hug, you great oaf,_ he thought.

"Good night, Lance," she softly. There were old tears behind her words.

The door shut behind him, and she poured another cup of tea. "Art, you're looking well," she said, her voice carefully level.  
 

The flight from Paris got in early enough that Art came home to Camberley House in plenty of time for tea. Jenny met him at the door, and took his case before he could say anything. She set it by the stairs and led him into the dining room where tea and cakes were set up, along with a plate of ham rolls. He followed her, his hands clenching and unclenching with the urge to grab her and smother her with kisses.

She stopped by her chair and looked at him with burnt-out eyes. "Art, you're looking well," she said, her voice carefully level.

That broke him. He took her in his arms and nuzzled her neck. She was trembling.

"I wanted to come home as soon as I heard," he said. "But you said—."

"The concerts were all sold out. It was bad enough that Lance and I weren't with you," she said.

"But the baby."

"Yes, it's gone," she said, and now she was weeping.

He rocked her in his arms, stroking her long ash blond hair. "At least Lance was here."

"Lance was perfect," she said, tightly, and pulled away from him.

What he saw in her face made his own eyes dampen. His heart lay faint within him.

How could he not have noticed this before? And dear God, what was he to do about it?  
 

Jenny sat with him after tea. She pulled one of the dining chairs up beside his recliner and held his hand, their fingers laced together. The evening news was on: the economy, the president's latest contretemps, the rebuilding in the Caribbean. Finally, the newscaster pulled out a new sheet of paper, consulted it, and said, "In the entertainment world tonight, rising music industry executive and former session musician Maurice Ogilvie is dead of what appeared to be a self-inflicted gunshot wound."

His fingers clenched around the remote, forestalling Jenny’s attempt to take it from him. “Art!” she said reprovingly.

"No, hush!" The newscaster continued: "The deceased was the youngest of the five Ogilvie brothers, who first rose to fame as the touring band of folk rock star Art Pendrake. Their mother, Muriel Ogilvie, was like Pendrake a child of late jazz legend Hugh Pendrake. Maurice Ogilvie quickly tired of making music and after five years went to work as an agent. His only surviving brother, Graham, reports that he had not noticed any changes in his younger brother. 'He always kept to himself, did Maurice,' Graham Ogilvie is reported to have said."

Images flashed on the screen: Maurice, his secretive face giving nothing away. Art onstage with Jenny at his elbow. Art's half-sister Muriel with infant Maurice in her arms as her other sons, all blond or red-headed, stood guard over their wayward mother and their baby brother with his tuft of dark hair. The Ogilvies on stage, roguish charm and instruments at the forefront, and Maurice to one side with a mic and a tambourine, pale and solemn.

Jenny was silent, her face still. "You knew," said Art. "Mike Silber probably called you. When were you going to tell me?"

"When the symposium was over," she said, so gently that he had to swallow his anger. "I never thought it would rate the evening news: he's been out of the scene for ages. I told the staff not to tell you. I wanted to be able to stay with you for a bit afterward."

"Well, now you needn't," he said, bitter. "When's your first session tomorrow?"

"At nine. I'm giving the keynote."

"Be off with you, then. You'll want a good night's sleep."

She kissed him on the forehead as she left, and he was pettily glad that she was not likely to get the night's sleep she needed.  
 

He'd come down to London on his own, at loose ends over school break in his last year. Hector and Julia were away on a well-earned second honeymoon, and Colin was infatuated with a girl he'd met at uni. Everyone was getting some action but Art. He sat in on a session at the Grey Cat, and there she was, an older woman, ripe curves emphasized by a tight red blouse tucked into black trousers. Her name was Muriel, and she said she liked his playing.

She liked a lot more before the night was through, after she'd smuggled him out the back door and up to her hotel room.

As he became a part of the London folk scene, he learned a little more about her: a patroness of young musicians, married, with kiddies at home and a wealthy husband who went abroad for the horses several months out of every year. Then, three months after Art had been with her, the husband died. Art read the obituary someone shoved into his hands and discovered that Muriel Ogilvie might have been a daughter of late jazz great Hugh Pendrake.

He vomited his guts out in the WC at the Cat. Everyone else laughed at the news and said that it was a good thing old Muriel had never got her hooks into him. "Art, you're an uncle! " said the owner. "You've four nephews, and they say she's carrying another."

He never saw her face-to-face again. But six months later, he got a baby picture and a note: _he's yours._

Art sent her money every month. Over the years, people remarked how frugally he lived, for such a star. When Maurice was eighteen, Art flew back from New York and introduced him 'round the clubs and agents. By then, the four older boys were touring as the Ogilvie Brothers and sometimes playing backup for their uncle. They took him along with them. Maurice hung on for four years, but he never really got the hang of it. He moved back to Scotland and lived with his mother.

When Maurice was 25, his brother Andrew found their mother in bed with a young folkie who'd opened for Art that spring. He stabbed them both to death and was sent down for two counts of murder. Later he died in prison.

Maurice, who had found the bodies, was never right after that. Then the phone calls to Camberley House started, with a chill voice greeting Art as "Daddy." Envelopes of photos of Lance and Jenny together followed the band to New York, with threats to send them to the papers. Art and Jenny divorced after two years of it. Lance, guilt-ridden, quit the music scene and joined the Augustinians. Jennifer went off to uni and became a fixture on the charity lecture circuit after she'd earned her degree.

Art dabbled in songwriting for others. Older than Lance and Jenny by a decade, his age began to show, and at last, his health began to fail. He sold Camberley House and his New York apartment to pay for a place at Avalon Residences in upstate New York.  
 

The blue outside the windows at Avalon had deepened to a near black. Art had skipped supper in the dining room, unable to face the residents, but he'd consented to a tray: a cup of vegetable soup, a wedge of cheese, a wholemeal roll, and an apple. He sat in the near dark, the music player singing to him again. The current song struck him as all too appropriate: a gloomy, reflective piece by a Canadian singer named Rogers. He had a rough, burred baritone, nothing like Lance's sweetly rich voice:

"So, tonight I have burned all my candles  
Leaving only ashes in their wake  
And at times, I get so hard to handle  
'Cause simple songs leave me behind, they all have taken wing  
And I'm left alone to hear the song a lonely candle sings... ."

_My only son is dead._

"Mr. Pendrake?"

It was the night nurse with his medications. Bedtime already, it seemed. He didn't recognize the face, a dimpled round with a bit of a nose and gentle, changeable eyes, now grey-brown, now greenish in the dimness of the apartment. Her hair was a mass of orderly dark curls. "You're new," Art said.

The pretty mouth smile, wide and unabashed. "I sure am. Tamsin Warrick, RN. Pleased to meet you, Mr Pendrake. The others have been telling me about you."

He shook the offered hand, small and square and strong. "All lies," he said. "Tamsin Warrick? There's Welsh and British in that."

"You've got that right," she replied. She went to fill a cup of water in his kitchenette and brought it to him with his wee dish of pills. "My granny was from Wales. They let her name me. Of course, at school, it was 'Tammy' nine times out of ten."

"Pitiful. Tamsin is a lovely name." He felt the smile on his lips, the smile of the younger Art, open and full of life.

"They didn't mean anything by it." She helped him stand, gave him his walker so he could go to the bathroom. When he came out again, teeth brushed, hands washed, she'd got his bed turned down and laid out his pajamas. He never used to wear the damned things, but now there was the staff to think about. Once she was sure that he was safe to leave changing, she went off to the other room, and he could hear her gathering the supper tray.

_He's dead. My only son is dead._

She peeped in a few moments later, when he was safe in bed. He had a book to read, Dave Van Ronk's Greenwich Village memoir, _The Mayor of MacDougal Street._ But he beckoned to the girl, Tamsin, instead. "Have you ever heard any of my tunes, Nurse Warrick?"

"All the time," she said, her voice warm. "Granny was a huge fan."

"Was she now? " Maurice's specter faded for the moment. "Which did you like best?"

""The Summer Girl.' Granny used to call me her Summer Girl, 'cause I was born on the summer solstice."

He'd written the song for Jenny, as an engagement gift, because her smile lit up a room like a summer sun in December. When they'd first started performing together, it was so simple: just a bird and a bloke with guitars. It was hard to reconcile that girl with the stern academic of last night, clothed in virtue like an abbess. "I'm glad you like it. Tell you what, I'll give it to you. You're the Summer Girl now."

"Why, thank you!"

"Keep it with you always, won't you?"

"Yes, sir, I will. I saw a video of you, you and Jenny and Lance, singing it at Newport."

"That's right. The three of us. Remember it like that." He nodded at her. "Tell me you'll remember."

"I will for sure. Don't you worry."

She was smiling at him, a kind smile, but it was just kindness, one person to another: there was no pity in it. She was blushing, just a bit: he'd touched her, about giving her the old song. "Well, good night then, Nurse Warrick."

"Good night, Mr. Pendrake. Shall I get the music?"

"No, leave it."

She went, then, the bright living creature. He put the book down, turned off the light, and lay back on his pillow. The faint yellow of the safety lights near the bathroom and the bedroom door were like candles, faint but mellow. A sweet soprano voice sang from the player, like Jenny's but a bit rougher: Maddy Prior, after her heyday with Steeleye Span:

"When home becomes a prison and snowdrifts lock the door  
When February Fildyke drenches the moor  
When black rain freezes and whips at your hand  
Then I will bring you a carriage with wheels of wind  
To take you away from this barren land."

_My only son is dead. Thank God!_

Jenny had only been trying to protect him. That's what the two of them always did. Tomorrow, he'd leave a message for Jenny at her hotel, and one for Lance at the priory. They'd come to him. He would be kind and warm, just their Art, and it would be like old times again.

**Author's Note:**

> **The Songs**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> The links go to mainstream video sites like YouTube and DailyMotion.
> 
> The version of the traditional song "[The Cruel War](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KG2Obw5kI_c)" that Art is thinking of is similar to Peter, Paul, and Mary's (but not quite so languid, because I think they're taking it too slow).
> 
> Art's naughty Scottish song is "[The Trooper and the Maid](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Q3qSTJDTU0)," which has been covered by dozens of acts over the years. The linked version is by the Scottish Pipe Band and sounds similar to the version I first heard, when I was a child too young to understand what was going on.
> 
> Lance's French Canadian song is "[La nuit de noce](https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x3rtrv)" as performed by the Qubecoise group La Bottine souriante. Lance's voice is better!
> 
> The song known as "The Demon Lover" or "The House Carpenter" is traditional (it's Child ballad 243). Art's version is basically [Steeleye Span's version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F09u12DbSKU), which I love for the visual imagery in the chorus, but the first take I ever heard was the one [Joan Baez recorded](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4RekFGUtexc).
> 
> I think that Art was listening to Mumford and Sons' "[Little Lion Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xd8tOAJMA8Q)" while Lance was visiting. He'd never admit it, but it made him think of himself and Maurice. 
> 
> The song that's haunting Art in the last scene is "[Song of the Candle](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4YE0zd_EFKw)" by the late Canadian singer/songwriter Stan Rogers (November 29, 1949 – June 2, 1983), who died tragically in an aircraft fire.
> 
> The song that comforts him is "[Long Shadows](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=agUq8AGha6g&index=7&list=PLjRIP5gPrJrrovTZnu_Alxqnzt-LxsEPO)" by Maddy Prior, from her first solo album _Woman in the Wings_ (1978). Prior is most known as the female lead singer for Steeleye Span.


End file.
